Page 87 of Sanctuary

“Me too. I think we’re going to do okay as long as we don’t run into any more snowstorms.”

He chuckles. “That snowstorm gave me everything—everything—so I’ll never complain about the weather again.”

“Yeah. Maybe this spring we can hike back up the mountain and visit our little church again.”

“I’d like that.” He squares his shoulders, relaxed and warm and clever and forever irrepressible. “But for now, let’s head for Sharpsburg and see what’s waiting for us there.”

So that’s what we do.

EPILOGUE

Eight months later,Aidan and I hike through the mountains to the west until we reach our little stone church.

We haven’t been out this way since last year. We’ve had too much else to do, settling into a life together and getting back on a semi-regular schedule for trade, deliveries, or message runs. It’s been better than I would have expected. The long trips we make together, although we often go out alone for the short runs that will get us back home on the same day. We also do guard duty on the wall in Monument, and Aidan likes to help sometimes in the community kitchen since he enjoys cooking.

We’ve been busy with life, and this week has been the first one where we could realistically get away for non-work reasons.

It’s taken us a few days to hike this far, and we’ve had a great time since the weather is good. Cool but sunny. The air and the ground is dry, and the wind is mild.

We couldn’t have asked for a better week to make our trip.

The higher we get in altitude, the fewer communities and fellow travelers we encounter. By the time the church is in sight, we might as well be all alone in the world.

We’ve got Aidan’s cart with us, so it takes some effort to get it up the steeper inclines. Both of us have to push, me with both hands and Aidan with his right hand and the contraption Cole designed for him on this left that allows him to grip the handle.

When we draw the cart to a stop at the front steps of the church, both of us are winded. Aidan has never regained his former strength after his injuries, and I’m more used to shorter, less rigorous travels now.

Neither one of us care if we can’t do as much as we used to. We’re so much happier now.

“Now’s the time to see if anyone has been here since we left it,” Aidan says, leaving the cart and starting up the steps. I follow him and we both watch wordlessly as he tries the door handle. Swings it open. Steps inside.

“Looks good,” he says, moving out of the way so I can come in too.

It does. The inside of the church is exactly as we left it down to the neatly folded robes and table coverings on one of the back pews.

The building smells musty and closed-in. It definitely needs to be aired out. But it’s dark and silent and free from invading nature or wildlife.

No one has been here since us.

Aidan meets my gaze, and we smile at each other.

We’re prepared this time. We’ve brought plenty of food and water, as well as toiletries, better bedding, and extra clothes. It takes a while to haul everything in and arrange it to Aidan’s orderly preferences.

It’s close to dark by the time we’re done, and the air is getting cooler, so we start a fire in the wood stove, and Aidan makes a big pot of potato, carrot, and pork jerky stew.

We eat it with a bottle of white wine—one of the three we saved from last year. The sweetest one. Aidan is worried I’m notgoing to like the dryer wines because I’ve never had the chance to cultivate the taste. We traded one of the remaining three bottles a while back, but not the other two.

We stick to one glass each so we can save the rest of the wine for tomorrow. It’s just as well. Even one glass of wine—after spending my entire adulthood with no access to alcohol—makes me embarrassingly giggly.

Tomorrow we’re planning to hike farther over to the old ski resort and attempt to dig out more of the wine cellar to retrieve more bottles. The following day, Aidan wants to see if we can get to the top of the mountain. On the third day, we’re going to rest and then start heading back home the day after that.

Maybe I’m giddy about being on vacation—which is exactly what this trip feels like to me—even more than being tipsy from only one glass of wine.

Aidan is in a good mood too. I can see it in how relaxed his body is, how soft his features are, how warm his eyes are. After we finished eating, he stretches out on the makeshift bed we prepared with blankets, pillows, and long pew cushions. He’s staring at the fire flickering in the wood stove.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask him, pulling out my braids and brushing my hair as the first step for getting ready for bed.

“How different things are from last year.” He answers immediately. Without any hesitation. "When we got here last year, my world was being entirely disrupted by you, and that was my main focus. But I was still living every day with a tight knot of grief and stress and anxiety in my gut. One I never let myself release.”

---